The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Tag: writing (page 1 of 19)

“The Giants,” a poem by Holly Day

the giants sleep as the snow comes down

covering their lumbering bodies in sheets

of frozen white. their warm breath

carves holes in the unbroken

rolling hills, melts snow into  runoff.

 

the giants sleep as the village children Continue reading

Flash fiction by Michael Prihoda

The Year of Looking Up Friends on Our iPhones Only to Wonder Who We Actually Met

 

Chloe read the Magna Carta backward. I’m sure of it, whether you are or not. Please tell me we are not the last people on earth. Please tell me if I open the door I will find the mail in the box, maybe a couple bills we can pay on our meager salaries. There was a guy named Peter one of us knew from somewhere, not a support group, no, I never went to that one that met down the street from the place where somebody my parents used to know lived. People started dying long before we started living.

Freddy is not worth talking about.

Oh. Raquel is another story. Well, there was this one instance, and I only heard this from Cam, who happened to be with her at the party and eventually got her home completely without taking advantage of the situation whatsoever (considering Cam this is almost unbelievable and I don’t even need to include any euphemisms for you to know what sort of activity he refrained from that I find unbelievable yet enlightening because, perhaps, humanity has some baseline goodness left and since Cam was probably five to six rum and Cokes heavier than when he started the night that this story takes place on makes it all the more improbable yet uplifting/encouraging/inspiring). Anyway, Cam tells me stuff went down and Raquel happens to be lucky in that there is nothing worth remembering (in a good or bad sense) from the night because she definitely remembered zero of what transpired in perhaps the best possible way of not remembering zilch. Continue reading

Poetry by John Repp

Horticulture

 

after Ed Ochester

 

Because Judy had given me for Christmas

a lumpen pot she’d pinched & baked

right in her kitchen, I tried my first

African Violet just after New Year’s.

The cat nosed its four furry leaves,

so I braced a two-by-six where fan belts

had hung when the place was a gas station. Continue reading

“Interview,” a poem by Dan Tarnowski

Interview

 

a couple weeks ago

isolated in my room

i had watercolor-painted a landscape

of me sending the bat signal

over the city

maybe a hero would come save me

Continue reading

“Gathering in the dark,” a poem by Richard Weaver

She holds in her skull

the quilted memory of a pain

fused with a metal plate.

Some nights she can feel the sky

hard as steel building to a muscled

roar. She is always fourteen.

In her the lightning waits Continue reading

“Magic Lantern” by Steven Wineman

Magic Lantern

An Essay by Joshua Weinstein

 

“It is impossible,” T.S. Eliot famously wrote in the voice of Prufrock, “to say just what I mean.” Prufrock finds many ways to express despair—he also wishes he had been a pair of ragged claws, reflects on being snickered at by the eternal Footman, predicts that mermaids will ignore him—and it was Eliot’s genius to craft a poem of breathtaking beauty from the point of view of a guy feeling sorry for himself. I don’t think Prufrock’s angst at not finding the right words should be taken as a philosophical statement about the human condition. But that apparently was what the philosopher Wittgenstein intended when he wrote, “Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent.”

When I ran into Wittgenstein’s dictum in college, I thought it was silly, an example of using academic-speak to make something trivial sound profound. I still do. We can’t talk about what we can’t talk about. Nu? Then there’s the paradox of talking about what we can’t talk about in order to say we can’t talk about it—quite the tangle. Besides, speech and silence hardly exhaust the range of options. What about music? Art? Primal scream? Beethoven’s rage may have been beyond the reach of words, but he found a way to express it. Continue reading

“The Test” by Sue Granzella

The urologist’s nurse shot me a quizzical look. That should have been my first clue. I guess I looked too happy.

“You know what you’re here for, right?”

“For a baseline on my bladder?”

Months earlier, I’d been shocked by a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. On my initial visits to the neurologist, cold dread had gripped my insides, squeezing the breath out of me in the waiting room as I moved chairs aside for patients in wheelchairs. I told myself to smile and make eye contact with them. Was I looking at my future self?

With time, I’d adjusted, and that day, I was feeling more upbeat than terrified. Bladder problems are common with MS, and since mine had misbehaved in the past, the neurologist had ordered this exam. I felt strong, though, and eager to receive a glowing report. I’d always excelled on tests. If confidence and determination could influence performance, my bladder might pass.     Continue reading

Poetry by Donna Dallas

Apparitions

I’ve seen them

in a breeze or a rain drop

A slow shadow or stunning beam

of light through the trees landing

on my child’s eyelash creating God

in a prism Continue reading

“Snap,” a Dramatic Monologue by Robin Fusco

CHARACTERS
Melody, a teenage girl, age 13

 

NOTE: The Snap Game is a game where different colored jelly bracelets represent sexual favors. If a boy successfully breaks a jelly bracelet off a girl’s wrist, he gets a sexual coupon for the associated act. A black jelly bracelet signifies intercourse.

 

MELODY plays with a black bracelet on her wrist, struggles to explain its significance to her older cousin.

 

It’s just a bracelet. It’s like, cool, okay, and I like black. ‘Cause it’s goth. Not goth like I’m gonna kill myself, that would be totally sad, but it’s a color or a shade or whatever. It like, goes with everything or something, right? Whatever. I can wear a black bracelet if I want to.

 
Continue reading

2017 February Contest Finalist: “The Deep Fat Fryer Incident of February 2012”

Working in advertising was supposed to be my escape from the fast food industry. As a teenager in Silver Lake, I’d taken orders through a headset and dunked frozen potatoes in a fryer, the grease baking into the webbing of my hairnet. Surrounded by movie studios and wannabe actors—well, mostly comedians who ordered double patties at four in the morning—I felt humiliated. I was an invisible, penniless, Cal State Northridge student, living at home with my mom. Life after I completed a bachelor’s degree in political science didn’t seem so incredible. My salary would be the same as I made at the Drive-Thru, if I could find a paying position at all. I remember burying my chin in the collar of my acrylic uniform, barely glancing at the passing BMWs. My sister, Rocío, had told me that the ad execs she worked with made six figures, sometimes seven. I made eight fifty an hour.

So the first week of my sophomore year, I took an extended break behind a dumpster to call Rocío in New York City. I told her, “I’m following in your footsteps!”

“Wha-? Chica, it’s after midnight here…”   Continue reading

Older posts

© 2017 The Furious Gazelle

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑